‘I have the number,’ Billy whispers. ‘It’s local from here, right?’ People glance at us, annoyed, as I shove the phone into her hand and the white man turns to face me.
The extraordinary amber-coloured eyes lock on mine, just as they did at Santo Spirito, and this time I feel as if I’m falling, as if I am shedding time, sliding out of days and months until I am lying on deep spring grass, bound and gagged, as Ty pauses, hovers in the air, and falls.
‘Come on!’ I grab Billy’s arm, shoving someone in the process and not even apologizing as I elbow our way towards the steps, desperate to get out of here, down into the piazza where people will be scurrying to cafés and jostling at the postcard kiosk. Or into Via Calzaiuoli where crowds will be window shopping, even if it means getting wet. Anywhere where I’m not going to come face to face with ghosts.
I drag Billy across the loggia, the phone still pressed to her ear. ‘Wait,’ she says finally, pushing my hand away, ‘it’s ringing. It’s really raining again,’ she adds, apparently unperturbed by my behaviour as she waits for an answer. And she’s right, it is. A curtain of drops falls off the loggia roof, hemming us in.
I take a deep breath and don’t look behind me, while Billy makes our reservation for tomorrow in Fiesole. Then she hands me back the phone and starts to fuss around with her umbrella. Rivulets dribble down the steps in tiny waterfalls and I wish I’d worn rubber boots. But I don’t even have a pair. I should buy some, I think. I saw some green striped ones in Rinascente. I could go back there now.
‘Come on,’ Billy says. ‘Let’s make a run for Rivoire. This rain sucks.’
She hops down a few steps, pushing her umbrella open as she goes. It’s kelly green with little white flowers all over it. I haven’t seen it before. The wooden handle looks expensive, and I feel a little pang of covetous lust, which is a relief. Ogling umbrellas is reassuringly normal. I make a deliberate effort not to glance behind me, and say instead, ‘That’s nice.’
Billy bats her eyelashes and steps down into the rain, dainty on tippy-toes in her lace-up boots. Drops spangle around her as she twirls. ‘It is a gift from a gentleman friend,’ she says. Now she’s Melanie from Gone with the Wind, and come to think of it Kirk actually does look a little like Ashley Wilkes. I follow her, glad to get away, and feeling foolish for it, as she skips into the piazza. If I went back and looked at the white man’s eyes, I tell myself, they’d be perfectly normal. Blue or brown. It was just my imagination. The fact I didn’t eat lunch. The light playing tricks.
Rivoire is full, so we find a free table under an awning at one of the other cafés. The horses and carriages have gone but a few damp tourists still run out and pose in front of the Neptune statue, spray rising behind them and glittering in the rain. The waiter comes and Billy orders a bottle of Prosecco. ‘We deserve a treat,’ she announces. ‘Just because.’
‘L’chaim,’ she says after her glass is filled. ‘I’m Jewish too. Didn’t I tell you?’
‘Uh-huh,’ I say.
‘I am!’
‘And I have a one in five chance of being Chinese. Statistically speaking.’
So far Billy has informed me, at various times, that she was raised as an Episcopalian, a Unitarian and a Druid, and that her mother’s other sister, Eloise, was born with six toes, which definitely makes her a witch.
Now she laughs and knocks back half of her wine in one gulp. Then she turns to me, her face suddenly serious. ‘Your husband,’ she says. ‘Is it OK if I ask about him, or would you rather I didn’t?’
‘Sure.’ I shrug. ‘I mean, I don’t mind.’ It seems unfair that Ty can’t even be mentioned, like killing him twice.
‘Well, what did he do?’ Billy asks. ‘Unless you don’t want to say.’
The way she puts it makes it sound as if he was a spy, or some peripheral member of an organized crime family. The Warrenzittis, perhaps. The idea is so absurd it makes me laugh out loud.
‘He was a teacher.’ I sip my Prosecco and feel the bubbles exploding on the back of my tongue. I only had half a croissant this morning, and if I’m not careful this is going to go straight to my head. ‘That’s why we were here,’ I add. ‘He was teaching in a cultural exchange programme for religious schools.’
She raises her eyebrows, as if this is fascinating, or at least unexpected. ‘So he was a Catholic too?’ A little smile sneaks across Billy’s face. ‘Don’t you guys mate for life, or something, like swans?’
‘No. No swans, no geese, and no again, he wasn’t a Catholic. He was a Quaker.’ I start to tell her that it didn’t much matter anyways because our marriage was over pretty much by the time we got here—in fact by the time we got married—but this seems unfair too, so I swallow the words with another drink, which means my glass is already almost empty.
‘Quakers. They’re the ones who say thee and thou, like that guy who kept microfilm in the pumpkin.’
‘Yup. And they don’t say anything at funerals.’ I reach for the bottle to pour myself more.
‘Did that bother you?’ Billy asks.
‘That they don’t talk at funerals?’
‘No. I mean, with the way you were brought up and all, didn’t you want a nice Catholic? An altar boy or something?’
‘No, Bill.’ I’m now definitely beginning to feel light-headed. ‘I didn’t go shopping for altar boys.’
I start to add that I didn’t go shopping at all, as far as husbands were concerned, but before I can Billy begins to giggle. She reaches for the tiny dish of nuts on our table and throws one into her mouth, catching it like a trained seal. ‘I learned how to do that specially to annoy my mother,’ she says. ‘She thought I’d choke.’
‘She might have had a point.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ Billy shrugs. ‘She was kind of sensitive about it because one of her friends choked on a brazil nut. In a Chinese restaurant. OK,’ she adds, ‘so, no altar boys. But what about those priests? I mean, they’re the guys with the wine, right? I bet you had a crush on your priest. You had to have. All you Catholic girls did.’
I shake my head. ‘Hate to disappoint you, but I don’t think our virtue was ever in too much danger at St Andrews, even if we’d wanted it to be.’
‘Well, they are human, Mary,’ Billy says. ‘I mean, they have sex. We all know that now, after Boston.’ She widens her eyes, being wicked. ‘I bet they do it all the time,’ she says. ‘In the confessional. It’s kind of like a phone box.’
‘Right.’ I think of doddering old Father Perseus who probably slept through the catalogues of made-up sins we competed so hard over when I was a kid. Or of Rinaldo, with his white hands and his baby face. Somehow, I don’t think it’s the physical side of things that turns him on, but you never know.
‘It’s the simplicity of it,’ Billy adds. ‘The classic quality. Just give me a man in a little black dress. Better any day than a hunky labourer. Speaking of which,’ she says suddenly, ‘that kid in the grocery store has the hots for you.’
‘Oh please.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Billy rolls her eyes. ‘He’s pretty cute too. I told him so. Maybe I’ll snatch him up myself, since you’re so preoccupied with Signor Rose Petal.’ This is her new name for Pierangelo, adopted since his roses, which I still won’t throw out, have disintegrated all over the kitchen table. ‘Or actually,’ she says, reaching for her glass again, ‘maybe not.’
‘No?’ I feel a brief pang of regret for Marcello. A fling with Billy would probably be the highlight of his life.
‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘Vegetable boy’s definitely a virgin, and I don’t do virgins. They are waaay too much trouble.’
‘Well, then better stick to lusty clerics.’
‘Been there, done that.’
‘You are so full of crap!’
‘Well, true,’ Billy says. ‘True. Actually, an undeniable fact of life.’
We are both getting loaded now. The waiter brings us more nuts, takes our empty bottle away, and without asking brings us another
one. Around us, tables are filling up with people leaving work and I am suddenly convinced that at least half the faces are familiar. Behind us a group of Germans press themselves together, and a flash goes off. Men in suits stop to buy the evening paper at the kiosk and women in bright clothes flit across the cobbles and come in out of the rain, dropping down onto the frail café chairs like butterflies. Drops patter on the canopy making it sound like we’re camping out, and despite the weather a line forms at the gelateria on the far side of the square. As we watch, the lights go on at the Palazzo Vecchio, catching the tips of Neptune’s trident and the dark solid lines of David’s torso, and the slight, sad tilt of his head.
‘Shall we get those people to take our picture?’ Billy whips out one of her disposable cameras and waggles it at me. She loves the things, says they’re cheaper than digital, and have the element of surprise when you get stuff developed.
‘No.’ I hate having my picture taken.
‘Grump.’ She drops it on the table. ‘What time is it, anyways?’ Billy asks this all the time; along with the picture taking, it drives everybody crazy.
‘About six.’ I glance at my own watch. ‘Ten past, to be exact. Why don’t you buy a watch? I’m sure there are plenty in the market.’
She shrugs. ‘I had one once. I lost it. Besides,’ she points out, ‘there are the bells. That’s what they’re for anyways.’
‘Yeah. Until you leave Florence. They’re not exactly handy to pack.’
‘Maybe I’ll stay for ever,’ she announces. ‘Well, why not?’ she asks when I raise my eyebrows. ‘From what I hear some people do. Besides,’ she says, ‘you just never know. Maybe I’ll meet Mr Perfect too. You’re not the only one. Maybe I already have, and I just haven’t recognized him. Mr Perfects can be like that,’ Billy adds. ‘They often travel in disguise and jump out at you when you least expect it.’
We sit in silence for a minute, sipping our Prosecco. Then Billy turns to me, a sly conspiratorial smile creeping across her face, and, despite myself, I feel a twinge of both anticipation and anxiety. I was essentially a goody-goody as a kid, more from lack of inspiration than desire, and just for a second I can imagine Billy as my sister, my bad alter ego, leading me into all the dangerous places I secretly want to go. I can see her wrestling me to the ground, sitting on my stomach and tickling me until I agree with whatever she proposes or, at least, say ‘Uncle’.
‘Let’s blow the bank and stay for dinner.’
Meals at places like this are crazy expensive, but right now I don’t care. It occurs to me that if Billy suggested we run up to the top of the Palazzo Vecchio and jump off to see if we could fly, I’d probably go along with that too.
‘Don’t you have plans?’ I ask. I know perfectly well that Kirk called the apartment this morning and asked her out.
‘Oh, I guess,’ she giggles. ‘But Kirk’ll chew me out for drinking too much, and besides he wants to go somewhere incredibly minimalist. He was talking about a sushi bar. I mean, what’s the point of that, being here and pretending we’re in Tokyo?’
‘Well, do you want to use my phone to call him at least?’
She shakes her head. ‘Neh,’ Billy says. ‘He’ll live. He’ll be fine. I’ll tell him I was sick,’ she adds, and raises a pink-gloved hand like Marie Antoinette, beckoning the waiter to bring us a couple of menus.
He obliges, sniffing a tip, and when it arrives I open mine, suddenly starving after my missed lunch.
‘What looks good?’ Billy’s flicking the heavy pages.
‘Not sure yet.’
I glance up. She’s tugging my gloves off, finger by finger. ‘Yum!’ She picks her menu up again, and peers over the top of the fake-leather folder. ‘What?’ she asks.
But I can’t answer. My mouth has gone dry and I feel cold. I see her nose broken, a rime of blood crusting her upper lip. She should have a broken thumbnail. And if I look long enough, be holding a goldfinch.
‘What?’ Billy asks again. She narrows her eyes. ‘Mary, why are you looking at me that way?’
‘I’m not,’ I flounder, and blink hard to make the image go away, to drive the picture back into the sealed envelope in the bottom drawer of my bureau where it belongs. Finally I ask, ‘Where did you get that nail polish?’
Billy looks at her hands. ‘It is a little dominatrix, maybe. Not very “you,” but cool.’
‘Me?’
‘I thought it was yours,’ she says. ‘It was in the bathroom.’
I shake my head, wondering if I’m really going crazy now, but Billy just shrugs and vanishes again behind her menu, leaving me watching her fingers on the fake leatherette, studying her perfectly shaped nails that are painted black, just like Caterina Fusarno’s.
Kirk does live. But he isn’t fine, and now he and Billy are standing in the piazza at Fiesole, fighting. She shakes her head as he digs his hands into the pockets of his black coat and presses his lips in a thin hard line. Billy has only spent one night in the apartment at Torquato Tasso this week, and that, along with her blowing him off for dinner last night, is what this fight is about. And maybe, I think, something more. Kirk knows the dynamic in our group has changed, and he’s started looking at me strangely.
Billy’s voice is shrill. I can’t make out the words exactly, but lovers’ quarrels are essentially the same, so we all get the gist. She chops her hands through the air as Henry and I and the Japanese girls try not to pay attention, which is difficult, because this whole outing was her idea.
Due to the Bardinos’ elaborate Easter festivities, Signora Bardino is not able to accompany us on field trips for the next two weeks, and with Signor Catarelli away, visiting his family in Genoa, we have been left to our own devices. Signora Bardino explained this in a handwritten note of apology she sent to each apartment. She could not be with us, she said, because her husband’s family had ‘traditions’. Our note—stuffed into the downstairs letter box along with circulars from a Dominican charity and a city flyer concerning garbage collection—prompted Billy to wonder out loud what sort of traditions? Perhaps, she speculated, Signor Bardino dressed up as a rabbit? When I pointed out that I didn’t think they had the Easter Bunny here, she shrugged and suggested we all come up to Fiesole for lunch.
So because she suggested and arranged it, Billy’s the hostess. She’s the one who looked up the bus and booked the table. Fiesole would be perfect, she pronounced at the bar a few days ago. It was meant to be beautiful and, personally, she was just dying to see the Roman amphitheatre and the Etruscan ruins.
Finally Ayako and Mikiko and Tamayo, and Henry and I get sick of looking at our feet and commenting on whether or not it will rain again, and Henry takes charge and leads us to the trattoria that fronts Fiesole’s main square, where we find a table reserved for ‘Signora Billy’ under the outside awning. Henry orders drinks while we wait for Billy and Kirk to stop fighting, and for Ellen and Tony from Honolulu, who live just down the hill and are supposed to be joining us. Ellen has volunteered to act as our guide because she says she now knows absolutely every little last thing about Fiesole.
The Japanese girls chatter. Their voices rise and drop like a smattering of high-pitched music as they talk about their trip to Verona and to Mantua, and about Juliet’s balcony and how they are planning to go back later in the summer to see Aida in the amphitheatre, with live horses. The carafes arrive, and Henry turns our glasses over one by one and pours our wine while we all try not to watch Billy yanking her arm out of Kirk’s hand and marching across the piazza towards us.
‘Warning,’ Henry mutters, ‘incoming.’ And the Japanese girls squeal with delight. Today they have abandoned their hats, but they’re still wearing their sunglasses. As Billy sits down, they turn towards her in tandem, like three baby birds.
Ellen and Tony arrive a few minutes later, on bicycles, and by the time we actually finish eating, a thin spit of rain has begun to fall. It’s been threatening all day. Kirk insisted during lunch that he felt drops on his head, w
hich Billy said wasn’t possible, given his hair and the awning. Their argument is apparently over but, like cracks under wallpaper, you can see the fault lines between them. During the meal they snark at each other, or smile and finger each other’s hands, both of which make the rest of us uncomfortable, so we are glad, finally, to dive away, even if it means getting wet.
In Fiesole, one ticket gets you into the little art museum, the archaeological collection and the ruins themselves, which are only a few steps from the cathedral and the piazza where we have just had lunch. It is Henry who suggests we go and look at the pictures first in the hope that it might stop drizzling by the time we come out, and Ellen agrees and immediately volunteers to lead the way. She crosses the street, making for the tiny museum without even pausing for breath as she describes the contents in detail.
The Japanese girls follow her reluctantly. They feel like they shouldn’t because they have been watching Kirk for cues, and every time Ellen opens her mouth he rolls his eyes as though he’s on the verge of an epileptic fit. Finally he says he won’t go into the picture museum at all, which leaves them in a quandary. Kirk has the status of at least a demigod in their book, but the Japanese girls also like to pick off pictures the way hunters pick off birds, and there is a very famous pregnant Madonna here. For a few seconds they actually dart back and forth in the road like squirrels in front of a car, but eventually culture wins out, and they trail behind Ellen into the Pinacoteca like sulky children.
‘Pregnant Madonnas,’ Ellen announces in her loud flat voice as she reaches the top of the stairs, ‘are extremely rare in Italian art. The most famous example is Piero della Francesca’s Madonna del Parto in Monterchi. The pregnant Madonna here is generally considered inferior.’
‘Well, she’s certainly gotten her money’s worth,’ Billy mutters. ‘She’s now fully qualified to drive anyone in any museum in the world completely nuts.’ We sidle away from them into the next room and come face to face with a painting of St Agatha holding her breasts on a plate.
The Faces of Angels Page 15